


Perhaps

by MrsNoggin



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Emotional Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff, God knows what she's doing ya know, Little bitta smut, M/M, Made For Each Other, Top Crowley (Good Omens), Wings, wing fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 17:33:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19817149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsNoggin/pseuds/MrsNoggin
Summary: Wings have never really done anything for Crowley. All manner of horrid creatures have wings, he has wings.It takes until that night, for him to see. He's been quite wrong, for quite some time.





	Perhaps

**Author's Note:**

> For the 666 Fics Fics Fics prompt: Wings. 
> 
> Thanks to [ englandwouldfalljohn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn) for the readthrough and making me post the darn thing.

Wings have never really done anything for Crowley. All manner of horrid creatures have wings,  _ he _ has wings.

His are dark, cursed, consuming the light and, somehow, the world that surrounds him. A part of him that has to stay hidden. Wings are awful. 

It takes until  _ that _ night, for him to see. He's been quite wrong, for quite some time.

***

Aziraphale is asleep in Crowley’s flat, in Crowley’s bed, exhausted from the day they’ve had - his own dis-corporation and re-corporation and every other damn thing. His eyes are closed, fully trusting in Crowley’s pacing guard through the flat, in his ability to keep him safe. He’s on his belly, arms flung out to the side. He’s naked. He’s also winged. And on the Mortal Plane; he’s too tired to keep them in the space between worlds. Here his wings are blinding, glowing with pure light, waves of energy visibly radiating.

They are so beautiful, a crystal clear reminder of his true nature and divinity. Whiter than new snow on snow and long enough to hang over each side of Crowley’s king-size bed, primary tips sweeping the floor with his breaths. They shimmer: ethereal, magical, too much, dangerous. Crowley steps closer anyway, bare feet padding silently on the floor. He unfurls his own wings, opening them out either side of him. 

And he looks to the skies and he loves Her and hates Her at the same time. 

This is a gift.

For once, the light that his own wings would swallow is supplied and replaced as quickly as it disappears. The splits that their presence would rend into the atmosphere are held together with a crackling current of celestial energy. He can feel the raw combined power like static in the air. It makes the hair on his arms stand on end. But now it’s _ steady _ . 

What a gift.

He looks down at Aziraphale, always fighting: to be brave, to be good enough, fighting for  _ them _ . And it’s when he recalls deceptively strong fingers grasping his own earlier that day, squeezing gratefully, tight as they took the support the angel needed, that Crowley realises that maybe, just maybe, he is a gift too. 

A heavy white wing rises, folding back, tipping Aziraphale’s body, the shift of muscle pushing his arm back to his chest, curving him around the empty space beside him.

“Were we made for each other, do you think?” 

Crowley’s gaze shoots to Aziraphale’s face. His eyes are cracked open, a glint of summer sky slitting through his eyelashes. Crowley climbs into the bed beside him, and lets the white wing tuck back down over his ribs.

“Perhaps,” he whispers into soft feathers. 

Aziraphale brushes a kiss against the side of Crowley’s neck. “I thank Her every day for you.”

***

Later, in the dark dead of night, Crowley digs his fingers deep into the muscle and bone that bind Aziraphale's wings to the rest of him, and feels the humanity meet the divine. He sinks into him, pelvis to pelvis and mouth to mouth. 

Aziraphale’s voice is like light in Crowley’s chest, and he snaps his hips forward to gratefully receive every gentle cry. Sweat is sweet as honey on his tongue, Aziraphale clutching at flaming hair to pull him down and allow him to reach more of it. It is a joining of more than bodies, and Crowley shares himself and takes for himself and feels himself growing more complete with every second. 

He uses his wings as leverage, digging fragile tips down into the mattress to help push him forwards. They ache, they bruise, and he uses them still. Aziraphale calls out to him, scraping eager fingernails into the flesh of his back, arching up into him, spilling between them, his own wings radiant, convulsing and twitching with the rest of his body. The sound of his pleasure is a rain of golden glow, blessing Crowley as he drinks it from Aziraphale’s lips. 

When Crowley comes, it feels like waking up.

**Author's Note:**

> Come join me for further discourse on Twitter [ (@katnoggin)](https://twitter.com/KatNoggin)
> 
> You can enable my caffeine addiction on that site we don't discuss here. It fuels my writerly soul and makes my heart sing.
> 
> But comments and kudos are what makes my world go round. Please and thank you.


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